Poems don’t sell

Abridged its form, but not its charm, cherished beyond many a realm
A bard’s qualm, why his gems are traded free, in the bazaar of rhyme
For the proser thinks, it ends before it begins, how it fails to overwhelm
Prose by an inch, that trades in dollars, alas, poor rhyme, not worth a dime

No leisure of space, not a crowded place, its beauty, in its fabulous frugality
Every tiny space counts, every letter, comma, word and phrase counts
Poesy is a prose condensed, prose a poesy magnified, artistic duality
But by all holistic accounts, what poesy recounts, why prose discounts

A juggler’s binding job sublime, to stir magic and mystique in a rhyme
How it drains the nerves, and scrapes the heart, of a searching soul
A thought awaits or dies until rhymed, while Prose never lives on borrowed time Hangs by rhythm, fickle fate of a rhyme…